The Early Birds
by Temporarily-Obsessed
Summary: "It was fairly obvious from early on to John and Mary that their two children could not be more unalike." In which Dick Grayson has an older sister whose presence changes some things quite a lot and some things not at all. (Previously titled "Of Robin's Wren".) Part 1 of Nestlings.
1. Chapter 1

**THE EARLY BIRDS  
Chapter One**

"_Call for the robin-red-breast, and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unmarried men." –John Webster_

○●‡●○

It was fairly obvious from early on to John and Mary that their two children could not be more unalike. Sure, both had dark-dark hair that defied gravity as much as the rest of them, had deep blue eyes that were striking and expressive, had narrow athletic builds, and even shared most of their faces' features- but Cecelia was a different breed from Richard, and everyone knew it. It was part of the beauty of their siblinghood.

Cissy had been born in the end of the beginning autumn, when leaves were finally letting go of their branches but the birds stayed in the trees yet. She was born screaming her frustration and surprise, and it seemed that was enough to satisfy her for the rest of her infancy. She was quiet, self-entertaining, and easy to please. Mary and John had considered naming her Robin, but at the first adoring sight of her face, they knew that the girl, beautiful and wrinkled and new, was not a flashy red-breasted spring bird. She was a tiny brown-and-gray songbird, a wren.

Dick, born barely over a year later and early, came into a world days from Christmas and white as the proverbial dove with snow. His entrance was no less dramatic than his older sister's, and yet the taste of attention it gave him would be difficult to satisfy even when he was older. He lived for questions and answers and lessons and applause. Dick was smiles and laughter and teasing, joy and curiosity and hope all rolled up tightly into a child. He was the robin of the two.

Despite the clear differences between the Grayson "nestlings," or perhaps because of them, the two were beautifully close. Of course they bickered and picked and teased like any other sister and brother; that was not something they differed from any others in. No, they did. But Cissy was protective of her little brother in a way that nearly defied logic- after all, hardly a year separated them, and probably not ten pounds or two inches- but she sheltered her brother and was almost a second mother to him. When things went late at the circus for whatever reason, Cissy would be the one to tuck Dick in and sing to him or tell a story until he fell asleep. She always went the extra mile to be sure he was caught up on the routines and schoolwork and that he understood what he needed to do. And of course Dick didn't always stand for her "bossiness" or "controlling;" he was wont to complain about those traits frequently enough. By the same token, however, Cissy was the one Dick turned to when he found a rock that turned nearly _blue_ when it got wet, or he heard a scintillating rumor about the bearded lady and was it true? Or when he scraped his knee, or couldn't quite understand a word in his book. She was the one he trusted with secrets and hopes and a new trick on the trapeze.

This wasn't to say that John and Mary were negligent parents, because in fact it was quite the opposite. They were proud, loving, and well-adjusted parents who understood they would never fully grasp the dynamic of their children and therefore let them learn from each other. They loved to watch the two interact; the whole circus did, and eventually, the world as the duo became a trio and them a quadruple act to match their signature flip.

It was this glowing example of family that toured the world with Haly's Circus. It was that family that fell apart, brutally and quickly, in Gotham.

April first, 2007- two stops after Dick had been permitted to join the act. Cissy had slipped, just a little, in one of her swings, distracted by her brother adding an unexpected flourish and worrying her. It hadn't hurt the act, and no one in the audience had even noticed, but John certainly had. He and Mary decided it wasn't yet time for their birds to debut the net-free portion of the act (they'd had doubts even before the slip, though). Dick was, of course, furious; Cissy wasn't happy either, but she stood aside silently, wrapping an arm around her little brother's shoulder.

John and Mary fell. Dick recalled the unknown man talking so angrily to Mr. Haly, and Cissy remember the two unfamiliar men fiddling with the wires. It was too late, even for Batman to help. So Bruce Wayne, in his unfortunately come-lately way, was forced to do his best.

It wasn't much. It certainly wasn't enough.

The morning of funeral is on a dreary, drippy day far too like a movie for either Cissy or Dick's preference.

"They deserve a sunny day," the young boy says quietly as his sister pulls a black sweater on over her similarly colored dress; the sweater was their mothers', and as such, it is too rather large for the girl. She doesn't mind. It still smells like Mom- and the smell will comfort her, Dick too, during the ordeal. After two nights in the police station, any comfort is welcome.

"Of course they do," Cissy agrees, her voice clogged from crying and poor sleep. "Here. Lemme fix your tie."

Her brother, for once uncaring of the bossiness, lets her straighten the tie. It doesn't help the fit of the rest of the suit, but the secondhand thing was only supposed to be for a funeral of a distant cousin who'd died the several months earlier in the year. It had been too big then, and Dick hasn't grown much since.

_Nothing to do about that,_ Cissy tells herself as she hugs her brother. He breathes in the smell of their mother.

"Come on," the policeman- Commissioner Gordon, Cissy thinks his name is- says kindly from the doorway. "It's just about time."

Cissy knows he stretched the rules for them; technically they should have been a placement house for the past two days, but with the recent fire having destroyed the biggest house just a week prior, CPS was still scrambling to find places to put kids. She didn't know where they'd end up tonight, but Cissy knew they wouldn't be spending another at the station. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad news.

The drive to the cemetery is melancholy and a bit cold. Neither child complains.

To their surprise, the gravesite has three men already there- the shorter, softer man with a clergyman's collar is explainable, but the tall and thin elderly man in crisp clothes is as unexpected as the even taller, broad-shouldered man in a very nice suit.

_He was there, that night,_ Cissy remembers of the muscular man. _He wrapped Dick up in a blanket and talked to the Commissioner. He was… kind._

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth," the Commissioner says in mild surprise. "I'm sure you recall Cecelia and Richard. Kids, this is Bruce Wayne and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth."

Cissy manages a cold sort of nod- _what are you doing here this is our goodbye to our family what gives you the right_- but Dick, who has always been better with people and more prone to liking them anyway, almost-smiles just a little and waves just slightly. The movement seems to remind him of the chilled air, and he shivers. Cissy wraps an arm around his shoulder and feels her eyes well up.

The funeral is quick and far sadder than just about anything in her life before this, because even the night they died she still could delude herself just a little. But now… but now they were in the ground. No more flying. No more embraces. No more Mama and Daddy.

Cissy may not be able to stop herself from crying, but she doesn't let herself shake or make noise. It's hard- very hard- but she keeps arms, still encompassing her baby brother, unmoving and comforting for his sake. She allows her head to rest against his hair and gets his ear soaked in her tears. She lets him weep freely. He needs it, like she needs to control herself.

The drive back to the station sees neither willing to release the other for the whole way.

Bruce Wayne is more than horrified to learn, two weeks and four days after the children buried their family, that because of the only orphanage's destruction, the Grayson siblings were placed "temporarily" in Gotham Juvenile Correctional Facilities. Facilities separated by gender, meaning the two could not interact at all, after having just lost the rest of their family members.

Honestly, did no one in the district actually care about mental states of recently orphaned children? Or children at all? Even just projecting the image that they did?

It is a violently loud discussion when the billionaire storms into the offices of Child Services and demands rectification and a briefing of the siblings' situation. His anger, his money, and his influence see him receiving a run-down of the situation before two hours pass. What he learns is almost worse than all the rest.

Richard is still in the facility, by all accounts well-behaved and not falling apart, just wilting (which Bruce has a hard time believing, as he remembers how he acted when his parents died). _Lifeless_ is the only description he gets. But Cecelia, oh, she's the bad news, really. Apparently she slipped away after a little more than a week _and how did a nine-year-old get out of a jail so easily? What did that say about security?_ And worse yet, she hasn't been found.

"Was there even an attempt to look for the girl?" he says through tightly controlled fury.

"There were some searches made, but-"

"Searches? How incredible. A girl less than ten years old, recently orphaned and separated from her brother, set loose on the notably dangerous streets of Gotham, and _some searches were made_. How amazing," and even Bruce is surprised by deep coldness in his tone. This isn't Batman, protector of the night and fear of shadows manifested, but it certainly isn't flighty, socialite, could-hardly-care-less Bruce Wayne, either. This is something new. Huh.

The man on the other end of the phone, properly chastised, speaks again, a bit apologetically: "There was some upset about security and making sure no further escapes were made."

After all that, there's some red tape to be cut, but it takes six days for Richard to be released into his custody, as his ward. It isn't precisely ideal (Bruce does not think of himself as parent material, but Alfred is sure to help), but it's better than the prison.

At least that's what he thinks until the boy opens his mouth.

"Where's Cissy?" And, oh god, he sounds so hopeful, like he hasn't dared to dream this would all resolve in a positive way until this moment. Those blue eyes, deep and expressive, are widened and his face, pale and wan as it is (thin, too- what kind of food were they feeding those children?) seems to project a kind of flawless innocence in that moment.

Bruce deduces Cissy is Cecelia, and breathes deeply before speaking. "Your sister ran away from the facility a few months ago." He pauses and then plows forward. "We don't know where she is. I don't know where she is, Richard."

"Dick."

Bruce starts just a little. "I'm-?"

"Dick. It's my nickname. She's Cissy, I'm Dick, and I'm here, and she's missing."

There's a bitter pause, the kind of pause he didn't know children were capable of. The moment of hope is gone, and those damn eyes are just heartbreaking, the pained set of Dick's jaw and the quivering line of his mouth all saying the same thing to the billionaire: _you fucked up good this time. _The man hesitates, he hesitates so painfully that it's almost a bad idea and too late now, but Bruce kneels down and hugs the boy tentatively, neither of which are things that comes naturally to him. At first he's afraid Richard- Dick- will reject it or, almost worse, not respond at all, but after a cold moment, he feels the flutter of hands settling across his shoulder blades and hears a tired little sniffle.

"She's probably hurt. That's why she didn't come for me," the boy whispers, and Bruce isn't sure if that would better than her just abandoning him. In that moment, he really doesn't know.

"I'll find her," he promises; Batman and Bruce will both be damned if they break this one. They'll damn themselves if they do.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE EARLY BIRDS  
Chapter Two**

"_He who shall hurt the little wren  
Shall never be beloved by men."  
–William Blake_

○●‡●○

Running two separate investigations on a guilty conscience while trying to hide his preferred identity from someone living his house is hardly an ideal situation for Bruce.

The guilt stems mostly from letting the original investigation of the Grayson double homicide slide on the wayside- though in Batman's defense, Poison Ivy decided that was a great time to breed new "babies" whose pollens contained as-of-yet not fully understood properties. He has a few leads and a strong hunch that they're not of a child-friendly nature, given the sudden spike in prostitution revenues; he doesn't think Ivy's the only one distributing it, though. Too far spread for that. But beyond that, the guilt remains- perhaps he wanted to forget the murder, in some ways so similar to the defining event in his life? Perhaps he thought the GPD would, for once, be able to do their job?

Either way, he has a hard time forgiving himself for letting two kids, neither even a decade old, get slipped into a juvie hall because of district negligence. Two children he should be in a position to understand better than most.

Which is another thing Bruce is having trouble with. He couldn't leave Richard- Dick- in jail when he certainly did not belong there, not by any definition he knew, and he didn't feel any upset over having gotten him out of that situation, but. Well. What does one _do_ with a mourning, scarred, hyperactive, and clearly intelligent eight-year-old boy? Worse, what does _Bruce Wayne_ do with him?

To understate the situation, it's a dilemma.

And really, the boy in regrettably clever. He does things like advanced algebra and some very basic pre-calculus to distract himself from missing his sister. Willingly. He even asked for a notebook to write down problems and ideas he has. He found a textbook in the library and was unduly cheered by it. _A textbook._

He notices things, too, like the clock (_the _clock) is frozen and broken, which he points out to Bruce on the second night at dinner. That coffee is always being brewed _after_ Bruce is supposedly going to bed in "just an hour." Dick comments that for a "society prince and business guy, you sure read the crime section carefully compared to the business and gossip bits." He's also thoroughly unimpressed with attempted explanations.

"Fine, I don't care, then," he'll say, smiling just a smidge before it disappears. "Have you found anything about Cissy?"

That's another thing. He never says, "have the police found anything?" or the like. He always says, "you." Bruce did not think he would take his promise quite so literally. Most don't. It's nearly like he knows, knows that Bruce has his own methods that work, perhaps better than the mostly-corrupted departments of supposed justice.

(Though considering it was those same departments that just-barely-legally kept him in a juvenile detention center for nigh on three weeks and lost his sister in the first place, Bruce can hardly blame Dick for the distinction.)

Every time, Bruce has to open his mouth to say: "No. The police haven't found any leads yet." _Neither has Batman,_ he thinks, and it is more difficult than he thought it would be to do so.

But undeniably worse than even knowing he had nothing on the search for Cecelia was the nightmares. Not his own- Bruce had long ago learned to deal with those by himself- but Dick's. Every night (and it had been a week, a painful one), the boy began with piercing whimpers, the words spoken sometimes in English and sometimes in a rolling, musical language that somehow conveyed his fear and grief so completely that Bruce wondered which was his first language. Then he moved onto the screaming. First with words- no longer quick phrases, like "No, Mama," "Dad, grab my hand" and "Cissy, where are you," (and of course the things Bruce couldn't translate but knew to be in Romani), but words, names, barely syllables- and then to just shrieks until he woke himself up.

Bruce found himself wondering once, morbidly, if the two would scream their nightmares in harmony once (if? If was becoming an awful possibility) he found the boy's sister.

Furthermore, beyond that first, impulsive hug they'd shared, Bruce finds himself having very little contact with Dick. He doesn't know how to interact with him- the fumbled explanations for the clock and coffee and newspaper solidify this impression. The nightmares are the crux of this issue. Bruce simply doesn't know what to do about them- does he go in and comfort the boy? Does he wait until morning and talk it out? Does he offer to drug him before he goes to bed?

It's a miserable turn of events that he begins to genuinely consider the latter.

Alfred is doing his best, but it's clear the boy needs more than British stoicism. The butler seems determined to impress that upon Bruce, through slightly cold manners and mildly burnt food (but never Dick's) to hint at his disapproval of Bruce's negligence. And Alfred would never enter a resident's room during his sleep without the express permission he would never ask for.

In the end, Bruce maintains his only tried-and-true method of genuine interhuman relationships: ignore it, everything, pretend there's nothing abnormal in the least until it all goes away. But even this isn't really working, and he can tell by the bruise-like shadows under Dick's eyes that seem to deepen and darken with every night (were they there before Bruce took him in? He can't recall).

When it's been eight days since Dick came to the Manor, Bruce hovers outside his door. He's fresh from the cowl, and the bruises on his torso from a mixture of Kevlar and bullets can attest to that, but the boy is at the screaming-bloody-murder stage of his nightmares, and Bruce is battling with himself- go in and wake him up, or ignore it, as he has been? The struggle is decided for him when the child gasps himself awake, gulping air on the other side of the door in a way that can't be healthy, and Bruce hears after several long moments, so softly that without his training he might have missed it:

"Hush little robin, don't say a word, Cissy's gonna bring you a new songbird…"

He's singing, quiet and shuddering and scratchy, like his whole world is broken and all he can do is nurse the shards of it in cut-up hands. Bruce really doesn't know what do. So he walks away, silent as the night, shamed at his own inability to fix it.

Frustrated by the lack of ground gained on the search for Cecelia Grayson, Batman turns his work towards the Poison Ivy-pollen mystery. She's never before been interested in distributing, and in point of fact may believe it to be insulting to her work to treat that sort of thing like a drug, so he looks down the angle that perhaps someone stole it. If that's the case, and she's aware (and really, she could hardly be ignorant of it at this point), the villainess is probably looking just as hard for the culprit as he is. She may have a better lead; he attempt to track her down.

He spends two nights on the prowl and the books, trying to unravel any of the three cases, but in the end, it's mostly accident that resolves any of it.

It's a generic patrol, one going rather calmly, actually, before the slightly grimy veterinarian's office on 12th and Madison (smack in a sector controlled by a rising mob force) gets blown up. Well, torn apart by vicious plants. The explosions caused by the pipes and gas breaks reveal a hidden underground center, possibly once part of the sewer system. It's not animals under there.

It's people. Young people- the oldest he sees, a blond girl in a red negligee, could be twenty, but he doubts it. And the youngest he can see- a girl, dark-haired, in pink lace underwear and a bra (why? Why would anyone do that?)- she couldn't be ten. Doesn't even look Dick's age, though the boy looks younger than he is.

The second his ward's face flashes in his mind, a cold and biting horror looms. The girl does resemble Dick, and she could be the girl from what he saw that night at the circus and the morning of the funeral. He can't quite tell from this distance- he takes a step-

And Poison Ivy is there, shrieking about thieves and her babies and horrible humans, attacking the customers indiscriminately. She does seem to be leaving the children alone (because it's not just little girls. It's little boys, too) but the patrons are fully subjected to her plants.

Batman decides they can suffer for a few minutes while he gets the children out. It's only because she's so obviously the youngest that he pulls the dark-haired girl out first. At least, that's how he justifies it to himself.

It is her. Cecelia Grayson. Cissy. Same nose, that static black hair, and when she opens her eyes- that thin ring of blue is right deep shade. Her eyes are very dilated, though, and when he quickly takes her pulse it's a dangerous flapping against his fingertips.

"Bah'man?" she slurs. She reaches a hand, as if to touch his cowl, but it misses and her wrist spazzes a little as her arms falls. The girl seems to recognize that her body isn't obeying her, and tries again, this time a little closer to her target but still off. Her leg jolts suddenly, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Cecelia Grayson," he says, in his Dark Knight voice. She blinks drowsily.

"Yeh," she says, and her inability to pronounce even the simple word fully is such a striking contrast to the controlled child who barely let herself cry as she buried her parents that Batman almost wants to pull whatever they've got her on physically from her body and beat it into submission.

_Vet's office. Ataxia. Dilated pupils. Nearly drunken behavior._ He flips through the clues quickly in his head. _Probably GBH. Christ. She's _nine_. They're all on roofied? Likely._

"Where's mah… mah… my-ah brotherrr?" She stumbles over the question. "Where's Dick-k-k?"

"He's safe," he says simply, and he puts her down. He's taken too much time to check her already. The other children need to be saved.

_Even kidnapped for a child prostitution ring, drugged to all hell, and subjected to an exploding ceiling, she still asks about her brother._ He shakes the thought off. But even if he pushes that aside, he does notice that most of the others are better off than she is. Only one, a boy probably twelve, is worse- pale and unconscious and breathing just a little too faintly.

He gets all the children out and away from the blast zone before going after Ivy. She gives up too quickly, recognizing that it would be lost too soon tonight. She slips away, and Batman can't make himself care enough. When he's finished zip-tying the ring-runners and customers (and if they're a little tightly bound tonight, well, what can you do? Can't sue a mask and urban legend), the Commissioner is with the kids.

"Batman," the tired-looking man greets. "What happened?"

"Poison Ivy believes this mob sector was using her aphrodisiac pollen for their own gain. She wasn't happy. She pulled apart the building to get to the leaders." It's the bare bones of his working theory: the mob force stole the pollen and drugged people strategically close to their sex workers in order to pull in additional revenues. From what he could gather, the vet's office was mostly a front to store their roofies, pollen, and underage, drugged workers.

"Pedo's haven," one of the cops nearby spits, saying what Batman's thinking, looking righteously angry enough for the apathetic others cleaning up the scene. "What the hell are the kids on? Jesus."

"Most likely GHB," Batman answers; clearly the man hadn't been expecting one, and his eyes widen as he looks up from placing a blanket around one of the kids. None of them are dressed for the chilled Gotham spring night.

"The date-rape drug?" The young man narrows his eyes furiously. "Goddamn- bastards-"

"Thank you. We'll run testing," Gordon pushes out a quiet breath and looks at the drugged group sadly. "Full rape kits on all of them. Get them some real clothes- bag the rags they've got on."

He looks back to where the Batman was, but he's not surprised to see him simply gone. He's gotten more or less used to that. The newbie, the one so angry still at the things Gotham had to offer, waves him over. He gestures at a now twitching, giggling girl swaddled in a light blue blanket.

"Sir, isn't that the sister of the kid Wayne's taking care of? The one he's been asking the precinct about so often?"

"Christ almighty," Gordon sighs. "As if she didn't have enough trauma. We'll call his house in the morning. After we've got the test done. Should probably get her done first, seeing as she's the youngest."

"Yes, sir," the rookie says, his voice softened with pity. The girl leans back and looks at the sky with clouded eyes and an open mouth. The strangest little chortle gurgles past her pale lips.

Bruce is slipping upstairs silently to get to room as he passes Dick's bedroom. He's still in the mumbling, begging stage of his nightmares, and the mixture of pride at finding Cecelia and the horror at what she may have (probably did) suffered while missing halts for a colorless moment, and Bruce considers the door.

His sweat is quickly cooling after an active night, and the rush of having closed a case (possibly two) is clinging to the moisture as it dries back into his skin. It's not an entirely _clean_ sort of feeling, but neither is Bruce unused or even directly opposed to it. It's a sort of badge really, a sign of his hard work, even if it itches a bit.

He opens Dick's door. Before he can talk himself out of it (because he knows he would), the billionaire gently shakes the boy's shoulder. It takes a little work, but the boy's eyes- damp and pink and tired- slide open.

"Hnn?" he mumbles wetly.

"They found her," he blurts out. He meant to wake him gently, perhaps let them sit in silence for a little before he him go back to sleep, and then tell him in the morning after he got the call- but somehow Bruce _can't_.

And it turns out that's all Dick needs to hear to wake completely up. He sits up with a jolt, his mouth cracking open hopefully. "_They found her?_"

"Yes," Bruce says, and he smiles a little despite himself. "They found Cecelia."

"They found her!" Dick whisper-yells. Bruce doesn't think he's ever heard a happier sentence. But then the kid goes still, worry on his face like cracked glaze on pottery. "Is she okay?"

Bruce doesn't know what to say, now. Should he lie? No, the kid would figure it out… but how does he tell an eight-year-old that his sister may have been raped, but was most certainly drugged?

"They don't know yet," he settles for. It somehow sounds right. "Some… bad people got ahold of her, but the police have her now. They're going to make sure she'll be fine."

Dick bites his lower lip. "Oh," he says in a smaller voice. "That means she's not fine now."

The kid is really too smart for his own good, Bruce decides. "Like I said, they don't know yet. They have to run tests and ask questions."

"Okay," he says, his words smaller still, The pause following it is difficult for Bruce- does he fill it? Does he leave it but stay? Does he let the silence stay and himself leave? "Did you find her?"

"What?" He's startled. "Uh. Batman found her. Her and the other kids." Thankfully, Dick doesn't ask for clarification on the 'other kids' bit.

"Oh. Okay. Are we gonna go see her?"

"Not… not now. They have the tests, remember? We'll see her tomorrow, most likely." _Gordon damn well better let him see his sister,_ Bruce thinks in a growl. "You should probably go to sleep. Rest for her."

"Alright," Dick says quietly, peacefully, trustingly. He settles back under the covers. "Good night, Mr. Wayne. Thank you."

_Mr. Wayne?_ Bruce realizes the kid almost never uses his name. He hasn't interacted enough with him… but Mr. Wayne? That wouldn't work for the long term.

"Bruce. Call me Bruce," he offers. Dick smiles drowsily.

"Yeah. Okay."


End file.
